Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(88)

“You knew,” I blurted as I blinked up at him. Above him, the clouds glowed in a riot of amethyst and topaz. “You knew about us all along, and you didn’t tell me.”

When he only gazed down at me, I shoved him away and sat up. “How could you? Don’t you think maybe, just maybe, that’s something you might’ve shared with me?”

He jumped to his feet. “And just how was I supposed to do that, hmm? Sit you down over a pint and say, ‘Oh, hey, by the way, you remember when we met as children back in the sixteenth century? Boy, weren’t those jolly times?’”

I felt my lips peel back, ready to hurl an answer, but he was faster.

“Or maybe I could’ve reminded you of the time you and your rich pop-pop, or whatever you called him, burst into my tiny village, a group of men on your tail? Men who killed everyone and burned my home to the ground?” He paced back and forth, his voice growing louder. “Or . . . how I had to forget watching my real mum drop dead from an ax blow to the skull while I dragged your butt through the forest for two days before we got abducted by bloody time travelers!”

Bran was panting as he glared down at me.

Furious, I jumped to my feet. “It’s better than being left in the dark!”

“Oh, you think ignorance is worse? Worse than being the only person who knows you don’t belong in your own f*cking time?” he shouted. “Worse than your mother spewing poison and telling you every day that you’re nothing but a mongrel who’s only alive on her charity?”

“Maybe not, but . . . but . . .” I trailed off at the look of unutterable pain that creased his face. He turned away and slumped down on a nearby log.

I dropped beside him, wondering if he was right. Maybe ignorance was better. My mother probably thought she was protecting me. Yes, she was demanding and controlling. But she loved me. I never doubted that.

“I’m so sorry, Bran,” I whispered. “About your mother—both of them. About everything.”

I felt him shrug. “You don’t remember any of it?” he said. “Not even me?”

“Not till just now. But when we first met, I . . . thought I smelled apples.”

He smiled at that. “I don’t remember that much myself,” he confessed. “I was only five. I get glimpses sometimes. My house. My mum. I had a dog named Beaufort.”

I put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry I was such a brat.”

He nudged me. “Eh, you weren’t that bad.”

I shot a sideways glance at him. “I um . . . think Dr. John Dee is my grandfather.”

He turned to me, brows pinched in thought. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “Yes, I remember now. He’d been to our village before, visiting with our wise woman.”

“I think he was taking me home to my parents,” I said, realizing as I spoke the words that they were true. “I’d been visiting him in London for a few days. I think . . . I think I did that a lot.”

Bran could only shake his head in wonder.

“He must have gotten away, because he didn’t die until 1608. I wonder if he came looking for us.” My chest ached a little at the thought. “You know,” I said, “when I was eight, I found his portrait in a book, and I just started crying. I didn’t know why, but when my mother took the book away she kept staring at the picture and then back at me.” I kicked at the snow. “I think she knew, or at least suspected.”

We were quiet for a long moment before I reached up to touch the leather strand peeping from his collar. “This was your mother’s?” I said. “Your real mother’s?”

Bran tugged the medallion loose and touched it to his lips. “It was a St. Christopher, at one time. Though I remember her telling me that our family had long rubbed off the etching.” His eyes clouded. “I think she would’ve wanted me to have it.”

“I think so too,” I said.

“Moth—Celia—claims that when they found us, we were nearly dead,” Bran said, tucking the disc in place, but not before I saw him swipe at his eyes. “That we wouldn’t have lasted much longer. Not even long enough for whoever stayed behind to get us to another village. She lied, you know. Told me Sarah was the one who stabbed Michael. That she stole his lodestone. She always claimed your mother took you and would’ve left me behind. That she saved me. Can’t believe I was stupid enough to buy that.”

“I used to dream about them, you know. I thought they were angels.”

Bran chuckled. “Hardly. My mother certainly has never exhibited any angelish behavior.”

I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Angelish?”

He grinned. “New word. I’m thinking of adding it to the current lexicon. Then, by the time the others reach home, it’ll be in all the dictionaries, with our names beside the asterisk.”

I blew out a long breath, letting it puff my cheeks. “So . . . then . . . we’re, like, four hundred years old? Or . . . minus four hundred, depending on how you look at it.”

He turned, giving me an exaggerated once-over. “I suppose. Though you look pretty good for an old gal, I must say.”





Halfway to the road, we stopped so I could sluice the blood from my hands in an icy brook. After swallowing all the bright, crisp water we could hold, we sat back on a mossy log to formulate a plan.